Crashing
by jemmy9
Summary: Sometimes your life can feel like a series of crashes and you have to decide how to pick up the pieces. Will you run towards them or from them? AU
1. Chapter 1

The lights are all off when you finally drag yourself home, not that you expected them to wait up for you, too clichéd. You're not sure what time it is, but it must be close to dawn, the sky is just starting to lighten.

The walk to your room takes longer than it should, your drunken stumbling slowing you down and making you loud. They wouldn't wake up if you ran into their room screaming in tongues though. Heavily medicated and apathetic to the comings and goings of their only daughter, they make it too easy. You like a challenge. Things so rarely are though.

In the comfort of your room, your lair, you begin the process of ridding yourself of the various paraphernalia from the night. Thigh high boots with heals too high to be considered appropriate footwear. A mess of clips and pins that once held your hair up perfectly with intricate detail. Sliding out of the simple black dress, that got you more than enough attention throughout the evening, you feel like you can breathe again. The makeup is the last to go, slowly removing smoky eyes and pouty lips. It's a process you've perfected and yet it still feels somewhat ridiculous, all the effort. You never realised you cared quite that much.

Crawling beneath your soft, white sheets which surely cost more than they should, you know you won't wake until the sun is going down and it's time to do it all again.

The sun forces your eyes open around lunchtime, too bright to be ignored. Not enough sleep to make up for the previous nights activities. Your phone chimes annoyingly, why anyone would bother trying to contact you so early is beyond you, but you reach for it anyway.

'Blister. Tonight.'

It's funny that anyone even bothers to message you about plans anymore. You're always there. Always last to leave. They're your plans after all.

The midday sun has heated up your room to the point where attempting to go back to sleep is impossible. Glaring at nothing in particular you pull yourself up and make your way to the bathroom. No matter how hot the day you can't help but take a hot shower. So hot that it almost burns your skin. It's habit though. To wash away, everything. You stay in there until the water runs cold, until you feel human again. Hangovers being a thing of the past. The benefits of extreme alcohol and drug tolerance.

Your parents are long gone when you make your way down stairs. No notes left. If you really wanted to know where they were you could search through their schedules, but you care about as much as they do and you're glad for the silence. Pilfering through the fridge it doesn't take you long to conclude that you aren't going to eat anything, you wouldn't even if there was anything good in there. It's your new thing. Not eating. A new challenge.

You're bored. There's a reason you sleep through the day. It's uninteresting. The interesting people come out at night. You scroll through your phone looking for someone to entertain you. 'Logan'. Always the entertaining playmate, you hit call without hesitation. It rings for longer than you're used to waiting before he finally answers.

"Hello?" His voice groggy and tired, you aren't surprised that you've woken him up. He got in later than you last night, given he was the one that dropped you home.

"Come play with me." It comes out like flirting, but he knows better. It's just how you talk.

"I was sleeping you know."

"And that's important to me, why?" You know you come across like a bitch, but you learnt long ago that there's little point in pretending to care, listen or anything else.

"Of course it isn't." He doesn't bother saying anything else but you can hear him moving around. There's no fight involved, he knows you'd just go somewhere else. "Be there in ten." He hangs up without any additional pleasantries, just the way you like it.

With nothing better to do you time how long it takes him to arrive. Nine minutes and forty-two seconds. It makes you wonder if he sped just to get there quickly and why. You never realised his interest ran that deep, not that that changes anything.

You greet him at the door with a beer and a smile, not bothering with words. He follows you through the house and out into the expansive backyard. Music drifts from unseen speakers as you approach the pool, cleaned to perfection. You sit down in the nearest pool chair, grabbing your own beer from beside it. It's too nice a day not to be drinking. You sit in silence for awhile, neither of you feeling the need to fill the space with pointless talking.

"So why are you awake anyway? I thought you avoided the sun whenever you could." He doesn't bother looking at you when he speaks, not that you mind.

"The sun woke me up and it was too hot to go back to sleep. If I could sue somebody I would. I thought the gods knew the rules." He chuckles at the stupidity of your statement and how much you mean it.

"Maybe they forgot. "

"Well they'd do well to remember in the future. My sleep patterns could suffer." Comfortable silence follows, both of you finishing a beer and moving on to the next.

"Blister tonight." It's more of a statement than a question but you suspect it's his not so subtle way of asking if you're going. A stupid question. Of course you're going.

"That's the plan. Although why everyone feels the need to remind me about it I'm not sure. I was the one who suggested it in the first place." He chuckles self consciously and you can tell he's regretting asking. You thought it would be assumed by this point.

"Who else is reminding you?" Another not so subtle dig for information, although this time you know he's trying to find out who you'll be going with. Green isn't an attractive colour on him.

"Finn messaged me earlier. 'Blister, tonight'. At least it was simple and to the point." You watch his reaction carefully; a frown forms before he can compose his features in a look of disinterest. He's usually much better at hiding his emotions, you're almost surprised he has any. Almost.

"Cool." He grabs another beer and stares off into space. A sore spot has apparently been hit. You smile to yourself, surprised that this is the first time you've noticed.

Beer has turned to vodka as the two of you sit on the edge of the pool playing a pointless game of 'I never'. You passed sober awhile ago and the sun is taking its toll on your ability to stay awake and composed. You've never been a calm drunk. Your first instincts are usually to incite riots, dance on tables and cause as much chaos as possible.

"I've never had a threesome." It didn't take long for the questions to become that of a sexual nature. Although you're both at an advantage, knowing most of each other's dirty secrets, Logan takes a long swig from the bottle of vodka you've been passing back and forth before setting it back down between you.

"I've never flashed the patrons of Mystic whilst dancing on a table." You chuckle at the memory and take a sip from the bottle.

"In my defence, I was dared to do that. Can't back out of a dare." Even if it's one you instigated.

"Of course not." There's a long pause. Neither of you having any questions left, the alcohol making it difficult to scan through the memory banks of embarrassing and scandalous memories.

"Oh I've got one. I've never been done for speeding or any other driving offences." A sharp breath gets caught in your throat. You know he's pulled this one from nowhere, but you're both drunk and sober enough to know it's not something you want to talk about. Ever. He's watching you, waiting for you to either drink or throw out a sarcastic comment. You feel like you've forgotten how to breathe and you know that this subject would have been better handled had you not been mainlining alcohol for the last two hours.

A diversion. You're an expert at distracting people. Avoiding conversations, situations, anything that makes you uncomfortable or uninterested. You take a quick gulp of vodka and move yourself so you're sitting right next to him. He's trying not to look expectant but failing miserably. Pressing your lips to his quickly, before he can question your lack of answer, you know it will be long forgotten shortly. He doesn't hesitate to respond, his hands moving to grip your hips and pull you closer till your straddling him. You knew he wouldn't turn you down. No guy turns down sex.

It's over relatively quick. Just a means to an end. And he leaves not too long after that, citing preparing for dinner with the family as the reason, not that he had to. You wander inside trying to think of something to kill time until you have to attend your own arduous family dinner promptly at six. It's been that way for as long as you can remember. With each changing maid, dinner time never changed. Then your parents are usually off to whatever function they are attending that evening or they're off to separate sides of the house to do whatever it is that they do behind closed doors. Yawn.

You're usually preparing for your own night out by that point. No goodbyes or explanations necessary. Always through the front door , never the window. The preparation process takes longer than it should, but you're a stickler for perfection and it gives you something to do in the hours leading up to the time you consider acceptable to leave.

Dinner is a quiet affair. You stopped having anything to say a long time ago. So did they. You sit picking at what is apparently chicken, but they've said a lot of things were chicken that turned out not to be. They talk about mindless things like the latest news at the country club, petty gossip about people that are apparently their friends, nothing new. As if your friends' parents aren't at their homes doing the same thing – gossiping about the famous (infamous) Hayden's. Your family has always been a talking point amongst society, for both good and bad reasons. Your parents, believed to be the last society couple to actually marry each other out of love (and the fact that at the tender age of 16 they were expecting their first, and only, child). High school sweethearts. To the casual observer they still appear to be head over heels in love – maybe they still are, somewhere deep down. But you haven't seen that side of them in a long time. Christopher Hayden, hot shot lawyer and "all around nice guy" and Lorelai Gilmore, socialite and event planner – just two ships passing in the night, three if you count yourself.

Things weren't always this way though. You were close once. That was before though. Before the accident.

You are expected to sit at the table until at least seven, listening to their pointless chatter. And the hour always drags out. How could it not. You can't the seconds as they pass, every now and then taking a sip of your water and pushing the food around on your plate.

You bolt from the table as soon as the clock chimes seven, plate untouched and your parents voices calling after you.

It's late when you finally reach the club, or early depending on one's opinion. Smoke billows from each corner making it impossible to see anything, blending in nicely with the heavy bass of whatever generic dance track is playing. Your haven.

The dance floor is crowded with people. A hundred strangers dancing. You can't think of a better place to be.

A drink immediately finds its way into your hand, courtesy of a potential suitor for the night. You smile flirtatiously at him, an ego boost to ensure a night full of drinks, even though you already know you won't be leaving with him. That role could be filled by anyone. But for now he will do.

The track changes to a heavier song as you make your way through the hordes of people to the centre of the dance floor. A pair of hands find your waist as you begin to sway to the music, not bothering to follow the beat, you hear your own.

Most of the night is a blur of dancing and drinking, boys and pills, all the right ways to have fun. This night will just blur into all the others, a fact you long ago become okay with. You're stumbling away from the bar, drink in hand, when you see him sitting unassumingly at a nearby table. It suddenly feels like the movies, you've stopped but everyone around you keeps moving around you in a blur. He's watching you and you panic, wondering how long he's been sitting there watching you. Did he see you give that Italian guy a lap dance? Did he watch you palming pills in the corner near the bathroom? Did he see everything? Your fear gets the better of you, forcing you off into the crowd, too scared for a confrontation.


	2. Chapter 2

You don't remember how you got there, or why you're missing a shoe, or why there's a bruise on your arm, but you're crouched in the alley vomiting when he finally finds you. As you do your best to miss your remaining shoe he stands silently at your side. Not your finest moment, but definitely not your worst. He was there for that one.

Your stomach finally settles as you let yourself drop to the ground, narrowly missing what were the contents of your stomach, nothing but alcohol and various decorative fruits and olives from the sides of drinks. You pull off your remaining shoe and glare at it before throwing it to the other side of the alley. You're the picture of a mess and yet the only thing bothering you is the fact that he still isn't saying anything. It's not a silence you particularly want to end though, for fear of what will replace it. Crying. Screaming. Words that can't be taken back. So you sit and wait.

"You look good Mary." His voice sounds far away, the alcohol and pills still taking their toll on your senses.

"I try my best." There's a long pause. "If I'd known you were coming I would have done something special; baked a cake, wore a pretty dress, something to mark the occasion." You laugh to yourself, well aware that that's all you can do not to cry. You already pity yourself, you don't need him joining in on the fun.

"The fun is in the surprise. You taught me that. And besides, I wanted to see you in your natural habitat." His voice is light and casual, but you know him too well, there's nothing casual or light about this.

"Well now you have Tristan." You attempt to pull yourself up, grabbing blindly at the brick wall beside you. His instincts take over and he immediately reaches out a hand to help you. Just like old times. The bitch in you wants to push it away, pour salt on the wound, but before you can he's grabbed hold of you and is pulling you up. It's been a long time since you've been this close to him and if you try really hard you can almost pretend like nothing has changed. But everything has. Nothing's the same. Especially not you. So you pull your hand away quickly once you're vertical, crossing your arms over your chest, a shield, and make your way out of the alley.

You're doing everything you can to look calm and collected, your appearance betrays the truth though. Normally you wouldn't stand to be seen like this, even at your worst you still managed to remain somewhat graceful in your drunkenness. But luck was not on your side tonight and you look more than a little worse for wear. Of course tonight had to be the night he decided to visit, something about karma and you. You should have expected it.

He falls into step with you, never one to give up.

"I like your dress. A little more risqué than I'm used to, but I like it." It's almost impossible to tell whether he's insulting you or just making an observation, either way it's his way of pointing out that you're different.

"It's just a dress." You snap. This is not a conversation you want to have.

"A nice dress." He stresses. "And I should know, I've seen you in a lot of nice dresses." The words 'and out of them' silently finish his sentence. You've reached the front of the club and there's still a line a mile long stretching from its entrance. You want nothing more than to go back inside and make yourself forget you ever saw him, but you know you don't have a chance. For all your charm even you couldn't sway the bouncer to let you back in, not in your condition and not without any shoes. You keep walking knowing you probably should have just stayed in the alley. Less public.

"Fuck." You mutter to yourself, you're fast running out of options and it's making you nervous. You always have an exit strategy. A plan. Now he's here and it's fucking everything up. Again.

"Something wrong?" He pries as he stops to watch you pace back and forth.

"Yeah the alcohol's inside and I'm out here." You keep pacing.

"Bummer." It's insincere but you don't care, you know it's just the tip of the iceberg. "Don't you think you've had enough anyway?" Hello iceberg. You stop pacing and look at him. He looks exactly the same as you remember him, just older, wiser, sadder. Once upon a time you would have heeded his warning, agreeing that you'd had too much. But that was back when there was such a thing. Now there isn't. There is no enough. Not enough alcohol. Not enough boys. Not enough drugs. Just too much time. Standing there in front of him you wonder if this is what it's like to have a split personality. Two people duelling to take control. Who you were and who you are. But you are what you are now for a reason. You can't go back.

"What is enough?" You laugh. "I'm still standing so clearly there's more fun to be had." He almost winces at your careless attitude but reframes, not wanting to give anything away.

"Yeah this sure looks like fun. You looking like you just got dragged from a dumpster, stranded outside a club like some pathetic puppy." The claws come out. Part of you thought it would take less time, take longer. You thought it wouldn't hurt so much, thought it would hurt more. You've been waiting for this. But now he's standing in front of you, calling you a mess and you're so far gone you can't tell up from down.

"Haven't you heard? Dumpster chic is in." Sarcasm drips from your voice. He looks so disappointed that that's the best you can do, that you have no defence, that he isn't worthy of one. Small talk clearly isn't getting you anywhere though, you may as well try anger.

"It doesn't suit you. It's not you." He sounds so sure. So certain that this is all beneath you. The clothes. The clubs. The pills. The boys. That there is still a piece of the old you buried inside.

"Reinvention. Haven't we learnt anything from Madonna?" He can't take it anymore. He grabs your arm and pulls you to sudden stop, jerking your fragile body to face him. He gives you a once over, taking in your smeared makeup, your battered feet, several bruises that scatter your skin, a dress that once upon a time you would have mocked girls for wearing, throwing out words like 'slut'. You feel uncomfortable. He shouldn't be so close. He shouldn't be looking at you like that, judging you. You do your best to pull your arm away but his grip remains tight enough to hold you in place.

"This isn't you. I know you well enough to know that." Wrong. He used to know you. A snappy retort is on the tip of your tongue, but the look in his eyes, the fear that this really is you, stops you from saying it.

"Things change Tristan." The look on your face tells him you're long gone. He drops your arm and takes a step back, finally looking you over properly. Watching you closely for signs that the old you is still there. You want to scream at him. Tell him there's nothing good left here and that he should run. Tell him that the girl he knew is dead. Tell him the truth.

His face is a cross between disappointment and something that resembles disgust. More daggers to your chest. They go straight through, being sure to leave behind their scars.

"Yeah I guess they do." And just like that he's walking away from you – again.

Before you can register what you're doing your following after him, spouting half yelled pleas for him to return, uncertain as whether you actually want him to. He stops; shoulders slumped with defeat, regaining his composure before he faces you. When he does you almost wish he hadn't, there is a wall up between the two of you, leaving you to wonder if the conversation could yield anything even remotely positive. But it's too late now, you've come this far, can't go back – what's another scar?

"Why did you come here?" Your voice is shy, hesitant, and fearful of the answer.

"Why wouldn't I come?" He questions confused.

"It's been nine months Tristan. Why now? Why at all? You have your happy shiny new life, I have mine. Why come here and rehash old wounds?" Your words drip with anger, frustrated that he seems to have forgotten all the details. Sad that he just seems to be going through the motions.

"I wanted to make sure you were ok. I missed you. I..." His unsaid words hang in the air, further igniting your anger.

"You could have come to see me when I was in the hospital. That would have been a great time to 'see if I was ok'. You could have come to see me before you left town without a word. Hell you could have come see me the day I left town. But you didn't. So what makes now so special?" You watch his face closely, knowing it as well as your own. It quickly registers that he wants to lie, to make up some noble reason why he has finally come to see you. The wheels turn in his head over the possible reasons he can give you but his face ultimately falls, disappointed, out of reasons.

"I saw your picture in the paper. It was from a club opening or something. You were hanging all over some guy, drunk. Or high. Maybe both. You were dressed differently, like you are now. And I was angry. Jealous." You can remember that photo and that night perfectly. You and Logan had managed to crash a nightclub opening but were eventually kicked out for 'disorderly conduct'. The press outside had snapped a photo of you as you were leaving, Logan half carrying you out in your intoxicated state. "It was like your life had just returned to normal or whatever normal is for you. Like it just kept going and nothing that happened, had affected you or even bothered you. Did you learn from any of it?!" He yells the question at you which you can't help but find ironic given that he was the one who ran away the first chance he got. He was on the new life train long before you ever got there. Did he learn anything from it?

"Yeah I learnt not to fall in love with guys who were gunna crash a car with me in it and then leave! What did you learn Tristan?" You knew it was going to push his buttons but you still don't expect it when he quickly approaches you and grabs you roughly by the shoulders.

"I learnt not to hook up with damaged rich girls that are just trying to piss mummy and daddy off." You push him back with as much force as you can and before you know it your hand connects with his face. It doesn't make you feel better though, it just leaves you feeling broken. You know that nothing you yell will change anything. He still crashed the car. He still ran away. And you still made it all happen.

When you lay in bed at night you see it all over again. Your mind replays the scenes, an endless reminder of events passed. Beginning, middle and end. You can still remember how you felt the first time you saw him. Like nothing would ever be the same. Who could have predicted how right you would be?

But things were good, for awhile at least. Until you being you got in the way. You're not sure who feels more guilty, you or him. He was innocent and unharmed when you met him. The same can't be said for you though. And now he's got the scars to show he was linked to you once upon a time.

With time the physical scars you wear have slowly started to fade - A jagged scar just below your knee from a rollerblading fall. A lump on your right index finger from when you burnt it the first time you tried to smoke. A thin, straight scar on the left side of your back from a shard of windscreen glass. That one is still fresh though. When you're feeling nostalgic you'll let your hand wander over it, partly enjoying the raised feeling of it. It reminds you that it was real. Reminds you that you can't go back.

With one last look at Tristan who can only stare back at you in a mix of shock and understanding you walk away and jump in the first taxi that will take you.

It's much earlier than usual when you find yourself back at your front door – so early that the lights are even on, your parents are home and awake. You can't even remember the last time you made it home before midnight. The sound of your parents arguing can be heard as soon as you open the door. Sigh. It's another one of those nights.

"Things were supposed to get better when we moved here Chris. It was supposed to be a second chance for her and she's worse than ever." You close the door as quietly as possible, not wanting to interrupt their conversation. You can hear the desperation in your mother's voice, these heated discussion are not a new occurrence.

"What am I meant to do Lorelai? I moved us across the country for Christ's sake. I tried to get her into therapy. What else am I supposed to do?"

Nothing. You know there's nothing he can do. Nothing anyone can do. You sneak silently upstairs and lock yourself in your room, praying they won't notice you're home.

When they first told you about the move you were furious, screaming at them that they 'couldn't do this to you'. As the days went by and your hopes of seeing Tristan again vanished, it no longer seemed like the worst idea. The day they told you that Tristan and his family had in fact left town, while you were still confined to a hospital bed, was the day you started packing.

Hidden in your closet, buried beneath the remnants of your old life – everything from clothes, make up, diaries, school yearbooks etc – is a box. A box that holds an even bigger part of your life from before the move. Tristan. Everything about your life back then, your life with him, confined to an average sized cardboard box with the words 'never open' scribbled on the side. You swore you'd never look at this box once it had been packed up and pushed as far back into your closet as you could get it. But here you are, staring down at it knowing full well that you're going to open it and all the wounds that come along with it.

You were perfectly happy (or more accurately content) keeping all of this buried, but Tristan was never very good at letting sleeping dogs lie. The box is covered in rows of sticky tape to discourage it's opening, but a quick flick of your pocket knife opens it with ease. You really wish it had been harder, perhaps then you might have been dissuaded from opening it. Not likely.

Piles of pictures are the first things that catch your eye. Ever the happy couple posing for the camera, kissing, hugging, smiling – everything perfect couples do. Some of the photos date back almost further than you can remember, to kindergarten juice boxes and holding hands on swings. The most recent photos show a very different couple, passionate kisses and party backdrops. The last photo in the pile is also the most recent, a picture of the two of you dancing at a party. You know this photo well, you remember the night well – it was the night that ended it all. Most people's 17th birthdays are memorable for entirely different reasons. You'll never forget yours. You have the scars to remind you in case you ever do.


	3. Chapter 3

The shrill sound of your phone drags you out of a restless sleep, made all the worse by the fact that you are still laying on the floor surrounded by painful reminders of the past. Not even bothering to open your eyes, you blindly grope the floor until you find it.

'What?'

'You sound like shit.' Logan's voice comes through far too loudly, forcing you to pull the phone away from your ear. The combination of hangover and poor choice in sleeping position have left your head pounding and your stomach screaming at you - of course you sound like shit. The fact that Logan sounds way too chipper makes it that much worse. He matched you drink for drink and pill for pill before your untimely exit, he should sound and feel like death also.

'Thanks for letting me know. What do you want?' You really need him to make it quick, you'll be running to the bathroom to dry heave any minute now.

'Where'd you disappear to last night? One second you were doing shots with Finn and then you were nowhere to be found.' You're not quite sure if he's asking this out of genuine concern for your safety or if he just wanted to know if you'd stumbled home with someone other than him - maybe a bit of both. A quick, squinted look at your phone tells you that it's 11:03am, he's had 12hrs to call if he'd really been concerned for your safety. This new jealous streak of his is starting to test your patience. You aren't one for being owned. Not anymore.

'Met a gorgeous Greek shipping heir with the hands of a god. I would have been crazy to pass that up. You know how it is.' If he wasn't jealous before, he will be now. You can hear him stuttering, attempting to speak but clearly not knowing what to say.

'For sure.' Of course he plays it cool, wouldn't want to appear too interested. This is definitely a whole new side to his personality - which is something you can't help but find strange given that he is well aware you've slept with pretty much all his friends at one time or another, a few even warranting repeat encounters. Probably best to pull the plug on this situation before he gets attached - he had to know he couldn't keep you.

'Did you want anything else Logan? Sleep is calling my name.' More like the bathroom to vomit then shower for as long as you can hold yourself up.

'Nah, just wanted to check in, make sure you were all good.' And just like that his barriers go up. Probably for the best.

'I'm all good. I'll see you tomorrow ok?' You don't wait to hear his answer before you hang up and drop the phone on the floor, narrowly missing your head. You want nothing more than to stay on the floor and go back to sleep. It's not the most comfortable place but you've slept on far worse.

The overwhelming desire to shower and wash away last night finally snaps you out of your hungover daze though, forcing you to open your eyes and get your bearings. Doing your best to avoid the seemingly endless memories that now litter your floor you head straight to the bathroom without a second glance.

Waiting for the shower to heat up you can't help but survey your now nearly naked body in the foggy mirror. There are bruises on your arms and legs that are already turning purple. You have no idea how they got there. Other than some grazes on your knees you managed to escape the night relatively unscathed, physically speaking. You take stock of the scars that mark your body while you're at it. Knee. Hand. Old news. War wounds. A quick glance at your back shows off your biggest war wound. Still fresh compared to the others. Not yet faded with time. You can remember so clearly that piece of glass stabbing into your back, wondering to yourself at the time if you'd be able to walk or move again. You're not sure when the windscreen broke though. At some point when the car was flipping you assume. It's mostly a blur after that, presumably caused by a combination of the shock, pain and copious amounts of drugs you'd taken that night. Thank god you weren't driving or you'd probably be dead.

The shower does nothing to stop the memories, no matter how hot you make it.

When you can no longer remaining standing in the shower and you've scrubbed away all that remains from last night you finally retreat back to your room, taking a deep breath before entering.

You can't wallow though. It's a 'new day', you keep telling yourself, a new life. It's all in the past now. You're not really sure who you're trying to convince given that your standing alone in your room staring at keepsakes from a relationship long ago destroyed. Maybe you just need to remind yourself. Put your walls back up. Toughen up and keep going. That's the only way you survived before and that's the only way you'll survive now.

"Rory!" Your mother's voice travels from downstairs, sounding tenser than usual. You wait for a minute before saying or doing anything knowing that if it's important she'll try again; if not she'll just give up and continue about her day. You're really hoping for the latter.

"Rory there's someone here to see you." Fuck. By the sound of her voice you can tell it's not someone she wants to see. This shouldn't be surprising given that's a fairly long list these days, she doesn't exactly approve of your new friends. Knowing it's most likely Logan 'checking on your safety' in person, you don't rush downstairs to greet him. Slow and steady – more like lazy and annoyed.

You're halfway down the stairs when you catch sight of your mother standing stiffly in the foyer, her eyes glaring daggers at someone you can't see yet. A bad feeling comes over you and you realise exactly who has come to see you.

"Mary." The old nickname is out of his mouth the moment he sees you, a hint of a smirk behind his otherwise passive expression.

"Tristan." It seems your demons are destined to keep chasing you, no matter high you build your walls.

"Rory, can I speak to you in the kitchen for a moment please?" Her formal tone tells you not to bother fighting it and if you're being honest (Ha!), you want to delay any and all conversations with Tristan. You nod silently and follow her out of the room.

"What is he doing here Rory?!" If she thinks he can't hear her 'whispered' anger she must be crazier than even you thought.

"I don't know mum, I'm as surprised as you." Not.

"You don't look surprised Rory. You look like you were expecting this. Have you been talking to him?" Her need to accuse you of things is new, it started after the accident. You can only assume that comes from the very sudden realisation that she didn't know her daughter as well as she thought.

"No I haven't been talking to him. And I don't look surprised because do you really think I want him to see me surprised? See that he can still affect me?" The partial truth has her retracting her claws, leaving her looking helpless. She never got to do this. Never got to scream and glare at the boy that broke her baby. The boy she holds responsible for ruining both my life and hers. She doesn't know the whole story though and it's not one you ever want to tell her – they're disappointed enough.

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm going to go talk to him and see what he wants and then I'm going to tell him to leave. Simple as that." She nods along as you talk, apparently agreeing with this plan.

"Do you want me to come with you?" It's been a long time since she was able to play the mother role, it's obvious she's been missing it. But you both know you don't need parenting anymore. You may be just shy of 18 but you're certainly not a kid.

"No, it's fine." She immediately looks disappointed and you can't help but feel sorry for her. None of this is her fault. "Maybe just stick around in case I need you or something." It would have been cruel not to throw her a bone.

"No problem. Just let me know if you need me." There's a whole lot of subtext happening that you just can't deal with so you brace yourself for an even worse conversation and head out to the foyer where Tristan is still waiting patiently.

Your first instinct is to say 'hi' or get directly to the point and ask what he is doing here, but no words come. Instead you just stand in front of him, frozen. As if he can sense your loss for words (he can still read you better than anyone else – no matter how much you wish he couldn't) he makes a move to break the ice himself.

"I wasn't sure if she was actually going to get you or if she was just going to stab me. It looked like it could go either way for awhile there." You want to laugh. He's always been funny, exactly your kind of humour. But you want to keep hating him a whole lot more.

"Can you blame her?" He sighs, his cockiness dissipating, knowing that the ice is far too thick to thaw with a few jokes. He looks like he's already run out of steam, staring guiltily at the floor. That look, filled with shame and regret, just makes you want to throw something at him. Why even come here just to remind you how shitty you both feel? You've never doubted that he wears his own scars. How could he not? But he was the one who walked away.

"What do you want Tristan?" No more bullshit. This needs to end now. He needs to crawl back underneath the rock he's been under and you need to go back to forgetting he ever existed.

"Last night, that's not how I wanted things to go." What did he really think would happen? Did he expect you to be waiting for him? Did he think you'd still be the same girl he left behind? The same girl he helped break?

"But that's how things went." There was no other way for things to go.

"I just wanted to see you." WHAT?!

"Well now you've seen me. Feel free to run back to wherever it is that you've been for the last 9 months." The anger is rising in your throat and all you can think about is laying there in that hospital bed, waiting for him. Waiting for him only to have him runaway and leave you like you never meant a thing to him. 5 years just broken down and thrown away.

"It's not like that." Of course it is.

"I don't care what it's like Tristan, I just want you to go." You're losing what little patience you have and you're far too hungover to come up with the witty and aggressive retorts you normally like to use.

"I'm not going. Not this time. I'm not going to run away again." It's like a sledgehammer to the chest, all the air rushing painfully from your body.

"What?"

"I start at Chilton tomorrow." You can't breathe. This can't be happening. You slowly lower yourself to the floor, not knowing what else to do. This has to be a dream. A nightmare. He makes no move to comfort you, he just sits on the floor a few feet away from you, like he was expecting this.

"You start at Chilton? Tomorrow? 3 months before the end of your high school career and you've just transferred to another school?" None of this is making sense. This can't be right.

"Yep." Yep? That's it? He comes here and turns you're whole world upside, not for the first time, and all he can say is yep?!

"How is that even possible? Your parents would never let you do that. Chilton wouldn't let you." There has to be some hole in his plan. Some way to make it not true. You've worked so hard to be numb. You've spent nine months building up the strongest walls possible, insulating yourself against everything and everyone. He's been here for 12hrs and you already feel like that girl he left behind. Broken. Damaged goods. You swore you'd never let anyone make you feel like that again – but here he is, breaking you down. He's always been your weak spot.

"I can be very persuasive. And money talks. You should know that." His cockiness has returned. He's always been a sarcastic smart aleck. Just like you. You want to match him. Bring your own witty A game but you can't even remember how to breathe and there's a good chance you're world is going to come to an end at 8:30 tomorrow morning.

"You can't do this." Your voice is softer, weaker, something you can't stand. He can't see you like this.

"I can and I am."

"Why are you doing this to me Tristan?" That's all you want to know. Why? Why is he here? Why did it take so long? Why couldn't all of this have just burned up in the wreck that destroyed everything?

"Look, I just wanted you to hear it from me now so that you weren't ambushed tomorrow ok. You clearly don't handle ambushes well." He turns to get up. He's just going to leave you – again! Just drop a bomb on you and walk away.

"Please just tell me why!" You're desperate now. You have to know. None of this is making sense to you. He can't just be here after all this time for no reason. There has to be a reason. He sighs and looks back at you, all bravado gone. Nothing left but honesty.

"I don't know. I just knew I had to be here. I know it's 9 months too late. And I know I should have been there for you then. But I'm here now. Neither one of us know how to function without the other. We didn't back then and we still don't. We can't take any of it back but we have to fix this." To say you're shocked is understatement. You've waited 9 months to hear those words. You've waited 9 months for him. But sitting on the foyer floor with him now, you know there's a good chance it's all too late, that you're too different now. Why couldn't he have just left you to self combust? You were doing a really good job of it. All the anger, guilt and sadness – it had somewhere to go.

"I'll see you tomorrow Mary. It'll be just like old times." He gives you a smile and a quick kiss on the forehead before leaving – as if his words, his confession, are enough to make it all better. How can it ever be better?

You need to do something. Anything. You can't be thinking about this. Him. Before you know it your phone is in your hand and your calling a familiar number, a familiar distraction.

"I thought that sleep was calling your name." He doesn't bother with the pleasantries and that's exactly how you like it.

"Changed my mind. Your place or mine?"


	4. Chapter 4

The deafening sound of an alarm going off jolts you awake, like a sharp blow to the head, forcing you up. For a moment the disorientation takes over and you're too confused to even open your eyes properly, the sun blinding you. You find it only mildly concerning that this is the third day in a row you've woken up hungover – although something about that doesn't sound quite right to you. Usually you show a tiny bit of restraint when it comes to drinking on a weekday. Weekday? School day? School! With that sudden thought your eyes dart open, taking in your surroundings – definitely not your bedroom. Shit. A quick glance around the room tells you that while it isn't your room, it is familiar - which hopefully explains why you are currently naked, save for the high thread count sheet covering you. Burying your head in your hands, you can't help but wish this was the first time this had happened.

"Fuck."

"I think we already did that." Logan's confident voice is both welcome and unwelcome. At least you're not in some random person's bedroom again. A peak through your hands reveals Logan leaning against the doorway to the bathroom, tying his Chilton tie, a smirk firmly in place.

"Really? Must not have been too memorable, cause I'm having a hard time remembering anything other than a lot of tequila." You finally relax enough to stretch out on the bed, snuggling into the incredibly soft sheets. One of the perks to staying the night here. If it weren't a school day you'd happily suggest staying here all day, were its soft and uncomplicated.

"You keep telling yourself that." He laughs before wandering back into the bathroom. Given the apocalypse that's going to rain down on you once you arrive at school you can't help but appreciate the simplicity of being here with Logan. He's fun. He's nice to look at. He's smart enough to go joke for joke with you and keep you entertained. And it only ever goes skin deep. That's the way it's supposed to be.

A look at the clock tells you it's long past time to make your escape so you surveil the room looking for your clothes but see no sign of them.

"Hey have you stashed my clothes somewhere for personal use?" Wrapping the sheet around you, not that Logan hasn't seen you naked on many occasions, and make your way to the bathroom in search of him. He's preening in front of the mirror, trying to get his hair just right, chuckling to himself. Always the perfectionist, you're fairly certain he spends more time getting ready than you do.

"Maria took them and had them cleaned. You know how she likes to keep busy. She should be back any minute now." Other than a quick glance at your sheet clad body, his attention doesn't deviate from his reflection in the mirror.

"How efficient of her." You can't help but think of this as a stall tactic, although you're not really sure why. There isn't much point in keeping you here any longer than necessary given that you're both due at school in an hour. "Why are you up and ready so early anyway? Does it really take you that long to get ready princess?"

"There's nothing wrong with taking pride in ones appearance." You poke your tongue out at him and head back into the bedroom in search of something other than a sheet to wear -a Chilton sweatshirt and a pair of black sweat pants discarded on the floor will have to do.

"Do you want some breakfast before I take you home? I was just about to go down and grab some when you woke up." Pulling the sweat pants drawstring as tight as it will go, taking in your thinning stomach, you know without a doubt you won't be eating any breakfast. Who eats breakfast anymore anyway?

"Nah. I've really got to bail. Need to pretty myself up before I can show myself in Chilton's hallowed halls. I'll catch a taxi home ok. See you at school." You shout the last part back at him as you're walking out his bedroom door. No time for proper goodbyes. No need for them. Anytime you find yourself wishing for the simple life with Logan it makes you want to run in the opposite direction that much faster. It's that kind of thinking that can get you into trouble.

You see him as soon as you walk into school, just managing to beat the bell, leaning casually against your locker. You should be surprised that he somehow knew it was yours, but you're not. Tristan has always had a way of knowing things – even the things you fought tooth and nail to hide from him. And lucky you he's not the only one lingering at your locker today, Logan is also waiting just behind him, eyeing him with great interest.

"Move." No pleasantries. Just need to stay strong. Keep those walls up. Can't let him see you sweat. You are not the girl he left behind. You can't be. He shuffles down the row of lockers without comment, allowing you access to your locker and positioning himself right next to Logan. Both sets of eyes are on you as you rummage through your locker, equal parts avoiding their stares and not being able to remember what book you're even looking for.

"Logan, help a girl out, what do we have first?" You ask him with a sigh, resting your head against your locker door, not having the guts to look in their direction. The idea of showing weakness in front of Tristan makes you sick to your stomach, but rubbing Logan in his face isn't the worst alternative.

"You can't really be that hungover, can you?" He asks with a laugh, casually pushing past Tristan to stand next to you. You can always count on him for a competitive testosterone display – something about boys being boys.

"Hey, you were the one that brought out the tequila. Who was I to say no?" Letting out a laugh of your own, you can see Tristan cringe out of the corner of your eye. You're not really sure if it's the knowledge that you went to Logan after he came to see you that bothers him, or that you were drinking on a school night, or if it's just having to witness you flirt with another guy – either way, it makes you smile. There's some small satisfaction in being able to get to him.

"Sure, if that's the story you want to go with." You both know it was you that brought out the bottle of tequila and it was you that finished the entire thing. He reaches over your shoulder and pulls out your English book, dropping it in your hands. "I have faith Medina's lesson will be super enjoyable in your current state."

"You're too kind." You press a gentle kiss to Logan's cheek, eyeing Tristan over his shoulder. He doesn't look away though, just raises an eyebrow, like he knows exactly what you're doing. Logan, on the other hand, looks ecstatic at the gesture. Deep down you know it's wrong to use him like that, but you need to get the upper hand.

"Always happy to help a lady in need." Ha. Lady. You haven't resembled anything close to a lady in quite awhile.

"Probably the only time I've ever been referred to as a lady."

"I'd believe that. Come on we should go before we're late." Logan throws an arm around you and steers you past Tristan, neither of you looking back. And so the war begins. You're not sure if this will put him on the defence or if it will just make him more determined - he likes to surprise you.

Tristan is waiting by your locker again at lunchtime – you've only caught glimpses of him throughout the day until now, something you're more than okay with. He's making it impossible to figure out what his next move will be though and you want to be prepared. He may be saying he's here to fix things, but he has to know that's not possible, doesn't he? You were a mess even before the accident, before he ran anyway without a word. There's a part of you that doesn't even blame him for wanting to run. If you could have run from yourself you would have. But he didn't even say goodbye, didn't even try to explain.

You'd been friends since the kindergarten playground. More than that since you were 12. You'd been everything to each other for so long and then with a spectacular crash, it was just over. A shiny new Porsche in pieces and 4 parents looking for someone to blame for their broken children. But neither of you said a word. Never explained. So the blame fell to the slightly intoxicated teen driving the car – him. And then the wasted out of her mind passenger became the victim – you. They didn't understand though. There was so much they didn't know. But he was never going to tell them.

You swore to yourself you'd never be a victim again. And until now, staring at him calmly waiting by your locker, you haven't been. But just looking at him takes you back to that place. Back to lying in that shattered car with glass sticking out of you. Back to waiting in that hospital bed for him to come. Only pieces were left.

"Tristan." He slides away from your locker as you approach, before you even have to ask him to move.

"Mary." You can't help but find his nickname for you humorous, especially now. Something that was once meant to describe your innocence and naivety stopped being true long ago. "Gotta say, the uniform looks good on you." You're certain he's holding back a joke about naughty school girls, probably of the catholic variety.

"I do what I can."

"Where have all your little groupies disappeared to?" Groupies? You suppose you could call them that. They do see to linger. Especially Logan. Following this morning's display of affection you're amazed he's let you out of his sight.

"I'm sure they're around somewhere." More like lurking.

"Waiting anxiously for their queen?" You're nothing like a queen. You have no interest in ruling. You can barely keep yourself together, how the hell would you look after others?

"Hardly. Been there, done that. Didn't really work for me." Those days are long gone.

"No?" As if the king himself would believe anything different.

"No."

"Guess some things _have_ changed." His dig at your once golden couple status doesn't go unnoticed but you both know he's got his details wrong. It wasn't like you sought out being queen. You never wanted the popularity, the notoriety. The only reason you were ever allowed to reign was because of him. Even at 12 he was cute, but over time he grew into the 6ft tall toned Adonis that still stands before you and that alone was enough to secure his position as king. The fact that he came from one of the wealthiest families in town didn't hurt either though.

"I'll see you around Tristan".

With the exception of your encounter at lunch, you'd managed to avoid Tristan all day, even when he popped up in several of your classes. You did everything you could to appear indifferent to his presence – focusing all of your attention on your friends, barely throwing a glance his way. Other than Logan none of your friends seemed to even notice the change in the air and you were pleasantly surprised that Logan managed to keep his jealous curiosity in check.

Leaving school in the afternoon has never felt like such a relief. You can do this. There are only 3 more months of school. You can survive seeing him every day until the hell known as high school finally ends. It's not that different from how it was before when you used to see him every day. Oh, who are you kidding? Seeing him all the time is like stabbing yourself in the chest over and over again until you don't think you can stand it anymore.

Scanning the student parking lot for Logan's Range Rover and coming up empty, your eyes eventually land on Tristan relaxing against a silver Porsche near the back of the lot. Before you even know what you're doing, your feet are carrying you across the front of the school grounds towards him. He looks like he doesn't even car – sleeves rolled up, leaning against the driver's side of the perfectly detailed car. No doubt it's a new purchase courtesy of his parents. You've never really understood what the expression 'seeing red' meant until this moment.

His smirk is firmly in place when he sees you approaching and you honestly can't tell if that's because he thinks you've finally come to talk or because he's glad to have pushed a button with you. You know that in a matter of seconds that smirk will be wiped of his arrogant face though. Walking across the last garden divider to get to him, you're not really sure how you got the rock now held tightly in your hand - but you know exactly what you're going to do with it. Realization dawns on him just in time for him to duck out of the way as you throw the rock full force through his driver's side window.

The smash is louder than you expected and it manages to draw the attention of every student in the area. At first Tristan just looks shocked, unable to believe that you actually destroyed his car. It doesn't take long for the rage to set in though and he's standing in front of you before you can even blink away this nightmare. You really thought this would be more satisfying, but as Tristan's hands curl around your arms, pulling you as close as he can get you – you're not so sure anymore.

"What the fuck Rory?!" He's screaming inches from your face and there's a crowd forming around the two of you and his smashed car – you really should have seen this coming. Fuck.


End file.
